


To Be Something Other Than A Role

by extravirginwriting



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - Actors, Alternate Universe - Hollywood, And Booze, Bisexuality, Dead Parents, I don't write sex so no SEX, Lot's of DRUGS, Mental Health Issues, Multi, Self-Hatred, Washed Up Child Stars, also seriously there is a LOT of drugs and alcohol, bastions a camera, be careful if u r triggered by that in any capacity, but otherwise ya its a mess, its set in modern day btw, theyre all messes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-01
Updated: 2016-09-18
Packaged: 2018-07-29 13:27:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,364
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7686262
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/extravirginwriting/pseuds/extravirginwriting
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fareeha Amari hasn't found anything better than C-list indie films since her famed role on Captain Morrison's Treehouse. Angela Ziegler still can't breakout. Aleksandra Zaryanova can never find a role that's ever fit her description. Lena Oxton hasn't yet found a director who can fully utilize her potential.</p><p>Everyone has a problem at Sombra Studios- but where's the solutions?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Washed Up Child Star or Disgraced C-List Actress

**Author's Note:**

> this is some bullshit i wrote at several 2ams over the course of a month. s/o to me
> 
>  
> 
> Song that goes pretty decently for this fic: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xc96GfmtBB0&ab_channel=Wiggymess (It's the BoJack Horseman ending song, but lets be real is that not accurate)

There were many times when Fareeha Amari woke up on a strange couch, in a strange house, sometimes even in a strange city. Still, each time it had a new element to it. Each home owner gave their own unique twist to her impromptu drunk AirBnB stay. Last time, she'd gotten hit with a broom, until the owner realized who she was, and requested a quick autograph before serving breakfast. The time before that, a cat had slept on her head. Fareeha didn't care, she loved cats and people who let her pass out drunk on their couch.

This time, Fareeha woke up on the floor, head throbbing. She'd been thrown off the couch by an angry looking blond woman, clutching the blanket Fareeha had covered herself with the night before. "This is  _not_ your house!" The woman snapped, giving Fareeha a swift kick in the shins.

"Ow! Jesus Christ- no, it's not." Pulling herself up into a sit, Fareeha shook out her hair, scratching at her head, "I got wasted last night, do you know where I am? Or where my phone is? You know, my phone is-"

"You're in my house! Now get out! This isn't a hostel!" She snapped, throwing the blanket aside to grab Fareeha's ankle, going to pull her away. "I can't have every drunk asshole in Hollywood sleeping on my couch!"

Fareeha tugged herself away, falling backwards. Staggering onto shaky legs, Fareeha quickly scanned the room for her phone, sunglasses and wallet, and when she found neither, she turned to face her opponent. "Hey, hey! I'm not just any drunk asshole- I'm Fareeha Amari! You know, from _Captain Morrison's Treehouse_?"

Looking confused, the woman retorted, "Who?"

Instantly, Fareeha's brain switched off. Somewhere, there's a big list of things to never say to a washed up child star, the first three being, "What do you do for work?", "What was your childhood like?", and "Who are you?" or any variants of the three. Despite the fact that Fareeha had been the one to have a drunken sleepover in this woman's living room, she felt deeply, deeply wronged. Her eyes lit up with new intensity, rage allowing her to temporarily ignore the hangover eating her up.

" _Excuse me_?" The classic, for the moments when the club bouncer rejected her, or when a director looked over her resume with disdain and let her know they'd "be in touch." "I'm one of the biggest sensations of the 90s! Nobody forgets who I am! I was the entire show! Who cared about any of those future Walmart greeters- I was the  _star_."

Now, the woman's expression changed from anger to pity, looking Fareeha up and down with a skeptical gaze. "And what have you been in since?" She asked- another one of the things you can never say to a former child actress.

"Well- I was in that big movie, about the shipwreck?"

"Really? Who did you play? I don't remember your face."

"I was one of the regular bar patrons."

"An extra, then. What else have you done?"

Fareeha promptly rattled off several big name movies, eventually being forced to answer that every single one of her parts had been minuscule, kept to less than thirty lines. Once she'd exhausted her A-list titles, she ran down the list of indie work she'd done, her parts slowly growing, but her host's disappointment following suit. It almost made her ashamed, to go from Fareeha of _Captain Morrison's Treehouse_ to Bar Patron #2 of  _Shipwreck_. Her mother had always told her that no part was too small, that every little line had value and meaning, and that she was just in a creative slump. A creative slump that had lasted seventeen years.

As a teenager, fresh off the show, Fareeha had found quick jobs. Celebrity endorsements in commercials, rebellious roles in big name cinematic classics, everybody wanted a piece of fifteen year old Fareeha, manager/mother working miracles to get her angel into everything under the sun. Eventually, Fareeha burned out. She dropped out of school to make room for a supposed blockbuster hit that flopped so hard it ruined the careers of all the cast members- including Fareeha.

It wasn't fair for have to sit and list all her failures to somebody she didn't even know. It made her relive everything she hated about herself. Fareeha shook her head, waving off the woman in front of her.

"Whatever. It's pointless. I'll just leave. Do you know where my stuff is?" She asked, now hunting around the room. There was party-induced damage surrounding them, red solo cups littering the floor, garbage bags filled with stuff absently scattered about.

The woman shook her head, tossing a few pillows over in a half-hearted search. "No. I'm Angela Ziegler, by the way. I thought you should at least know that since you passed out on my couch last night."

"Yeah... Sorry. It must've been a pretty good party, though, if I got drunk enough to do that." Fareeha said, smiling lightly as she produced her sunglasses from the couch cushions, searching deeper for her wallet and phone, finding only a few gunk-crusted pennies and half of a pen. Disappointed, Fareeha flattened herself out on the floor, swiping her arm under the couch and finding her cracked phone. "Dammit... This was new, too."

"Aren't you famous? Can't you just buy a new one?" Angela asked, rolling her eyes as she went on the hunt for Fareeha's wallet.

Feeling a bit embarrassed to say 'not really,' Fareeha shrugged, deciding instead on, "It's the principle. Still sucks I cracked it up. Whatever- still works, I'll probably just wait until the weekend to get a new one."

Angela understood the code, nodding solemnly while walking towards the kitchen. Instead of continuing her search, she opened the fridge, pulling out a carton of eggs and milk. She felt sorry for Fareeha, on her hands and knees looking for the elusive wallet. For the past eight months, Angela had been living in Hollywood with dreams of becoming an actress. However, she'd only done community theatre before, never once introduced to the pageant circuit like the big names, never once stood in a commercial studio talking the camera's metaphorical ear off about whitening toothpaste. Unlike all of her actor friends, Angela had never once had a role that wasn't Shakespearean, and had never once starred in a production that attracted more than eighty people to the theatre.

Broadway had been a dream of Angela's, but she loathed the idea of only working on one project at a time. She couldn't do  _Hamilton_ and _Fun Home_ and  _Wicked._ She could only pick one. But in Hollywood, Angela could pick up seventeen scripts and juggle them all day. That is, if she could find a script. Most of the parts she played were extras in commercials, baristas in a television show ran only at one in the morning on week nights on a dying TV network. 

"Would you like some breakfast? I'm making eggs and toast." Angela asked, her heart warming slightly at the thought of Fareeha waiting in the same audition rooms she did. It was a shitty reality, and she knew it all too well.

"Eh, why not?" Fareeha replied, adventuring into the hallway. "I've got to leave by eleven fifteen though. I have an audition."

"Oh really? Where?"

Moving bottles of lotion in the bathroom, Fareeha grimaced. To tell Angela where she was auditioning would open an avenue for her to audition and steal the role. She needed the work, and bad. But the small talk was necessary too. Since the  _Treehouse_ days, Fareeha had trouble making friends. Most of the other actors she knew either detested her based on rumors they'd overheard at a party or had been publicly attacked by her. The few that didn't hate her were in a similar position as she was, though most of them had never been introduced to acting so young, and lived none of her absent childhood. She didn't even have friends who didn't act. They weren't acceptable by her mother's standards.

"Sombra Studios." She said, maintaining her honesty. "Their new movie-  _Overwatch_. I'm auditioning for Pharah."

"Oh!" Angela chimed in from the kitchen, cracking an egg into the shallow bowl she'd picked from the cupboard. "I'm auditioning there too. For the Mercy role?"

Fareeha stopped in her tracks, hurriedly replacing the vitamins she'd pulled off the shelf once she'd unfroze. Despite the glimpse of optimism growing inside of her that she might have a friend, especially one on set, she let her depressive self-depreciation take over, telling her Angela wasn't her friend, and that she probably wouldn't get the part anyways. A side effect of being a child actress. Too many role rejections, too many divas on set who rejected her every advance.

Coming back into the kitchen, Fareeha put on her best fake smile. "You seem like a perfect fit."

"Why thank you, Ms. Amari." Angela teased, pouring the egg into a pan, "I hope we both get the parts. It'd be nice to see a familiar face on set."

 

* * *

  

_7 Missed Calls from Mother_

 

Setting her phone in the cup holder, Fareeha shoved her keys in the ignition and turned on her car radio. Breakfast had been nothing more than small talk. Though, Angela had made it rather appealing to discuss crappy scripts and irritating momagers. Still, her lazy breakfast had made her late, and she was leaving Angela's apartment ten minutes later than she should've been. Ten minutes for most people was a simple mistake, but Ana Amari saw it as a cardinal sin.

Her phone rang again, and as she pulled out of the parking garage, Fareeha reluctantly tapped the answer call button, peeling the speaker slightly away from her ear.

"Fareeha Amari! Where are you!?" Ana shouted.

"Jeez, Mom. I'll be home any second, I went out to breakfast after the party last night." Fareeha said, turning onto the main road, speeding slightly to make good on her promise.

"You went out partying!?"

Fareeha had been on a partying ban ever since she had her stomach pumped in an L.A. hospital. That night, she had gone out on her own, hit five separate parties, and ended up passed out in the street on one of the messiest binges of her life. When she came to, under the supervision of an ICU nurse, her mother forced her to change their contract, stating that Fareeha was not allowed to drink more than a single beer or do anything heavier than marijuana, or face the end of her career and a lifetime in rehab, though Ana was too smart to uphold it. Her daughter was simply put, a cash cow, and if Ana stuck her in treatment, the cash flow would stop. 

"It wasn't a big deal, Mom. I swear, I didn't drink or do anything else. Just stayed out too late and had to sleep in." She lied, doubting her mother would believe it.

"You went to a party and didn't drink?" No, she wasn't buying it. "How's your head then?"

Sighing, Fareeha decided to confess. "Fine. I got wasted. But I'm fine! I've got aspirin in the glove compartment for my headache, and I don't feel even remotely like I'm going to be sick! I even had breakfast, that was true! And, I'm almost home, too, traffic isn't bad at all."

"If you keep this up, Fareeha, I'll have to get you into a treatment center. This happened to your father too. He drank, and drank, and drank until-"

"He couldn't stop. God, I understand, Mom! I'm not that bad of an alcoholic!"

"I just want to make sure you understand the consequences of your actions. The stylist is here, hurry up."

With that, the conversation came to an end and Fareeha turned the wheel sharply, trying to make the turn she'd almost missed. Some aggravated honking was her only penalty, and she was well on her way to being back in her Beverly Hills mansion, being pampered by an underpaid makeup artist, having her hair played with by an equally salaried hair stylist.

The mansion was courtesy of Fareeha's late father. His trust fund-locked inheritance had gone towards the seventeen million dollar home the day Fareeha turned eighteen and was able to access it. Fareeha's father had died when she was five from an overdose. He was somewhat famous, almost a foreshadowing to his daughter's future. In the seventies and eighties, he was a rockstar, meeting Ana at a concert and taking her home that same night to create the future Fareeha Amari. By the time Fareeha was three however, her father was already ogling new women and new substances. He missed her fourth birthday after a particularly bad acid trip, and from that moment on, Ana swore he would never have a place in her daughter's life again.

When they'd been considering leaving their Santa Monica penthouse, Ana retracted that vow with eyes on the trust fund money. She'd already used up the twenty million she'd gotten from his inheritance, and she didn't want Fareeha to be the only one in her acting class  _not_ living in Beverly Hills.

Turning onto the sole road leading up to the winding hill where the mansion sat, Fareeha fixed her hair to make her look less hungover, hoping to make an acceptable impression on her mother. Ana's mood for the rest of the day would be decided by this entrance, and it had to be spectacular. As she parked in the driveway, Fareeha began to consider possible greetings- excusing herself for her behavior the night before, being casual, sweet-talking the stylists for an extra good look to impress the director with, or being silent and sullen to make Ana guilty for scolding her.

She sprinted up the stairs to the porch, greeted by her mother throwing open the door and yanking her inside. Unfortunately, sprinting up a set of stairs and then being sharply pulled and dragged by a furious momager didn't bode well for a hungover stomach, leaving Fareeha gagging in the foyer, her mother hesitantly supporting her.

"My God, Fareeha... Not feeling sick? Christ, I'll get you a paper towel, go get your hair done. I feel sorry for the maid that's got to clean this up." Ana snapped, sending her daughter into the living room.

Immediately, the stylist who'd been doing Fareeha's hair since her  _Treehouse_ days, Mirembe, shoved Fareeha into the chair, readying her brush. "Are we just going the usual route?"

Fareeha shrugged, straightening her back and setting her head straight forward. Luckily, her hair didn't knot easily and in the mirror, she didn't like too much like a mess. Still, it felt like her scalp was being massacred by the intensity of Mirembe's brushing. Ana rushed in with a damp towel, wiping Fareeha's mouth clean before sending in her regular makeup artist, Kimiko.

Makeup wasn't something Fareeha usually indulged in. Sometimes, she would have to use foundation to cover the tattoo she'd gotten under her eye when she turned nineteen- a dark Eye of Horus. On any other day, however, she survived on berry flavored lip gloss and hand cream. It was nice to be pampered at times, but when she was running ten minutes behind schedule and her face was being coated in products she didn't even know the names of, it was more than unpleasant.

"Mother- do we have to do all this? It's just an audition." Fareeha asked, gritting her teeth as the stylist braided quickly and sharply.

Ana's eyes narrowed as she shoved the makeup artist aside to get right in Fareeha's face. "Your  _career_ is resting on this. If you want to live on residuals the rest of your life, go ahead! Starve out in the streets in old clothes! But if you want to make money, buy new, nice things- then you go and you audition as your best self! You're no Egyptian Emma Stone- people aren't sold on  _you_ , your shitty resume is practically the size of a post-it note! All you have going is  _Treehouse_! When you show up with braids and lipstick and eyeshadow- people are sold on Fareeha Amari!"

Feeling slightly upset by her mother's speech, Fareeha nodded, earning a light smack on the side of the head from Mirembe. She didn't like being late because it was a bad thing to do, she didn't like to be late because it caused things like this. It infuriated her mother, which made her angry, temperamental, and rude. Ana had no filter when it came to lecturing her daughter, she would be as harsh as she had to be to truly drive the message in.

"Alright, let's hurry and try to wrap it up. I still need to get her dressed." Ana addressed the two workers before disappearing to the upstairs, probably to root through Fareeha's closet.

"She's kind of mean to you, isn't she?" Kimiko commented, almost absently.

"She wants only the best for you." Mirembe added, pushing a side a clump of braids to continue her work. "I've known your mother since we were in school, and all she wants is for you to be happy, healthy and safe. Even if she can't express it properly."

Grumbling, Fareeha settled into the chair, letting the pair work.

 

* * *

  

Sombra Studios was on a large lot in the heart of Hollywood, the outside decorated with posters from featured productions. It seemed unimpressive from the exterior, like every other studio Fareeha had seen over her career. After being shooed by Ana, she rushed inside, hoping that there were more than ten people lined up. She was sitting at twenty minutes late, an unforgivable sin in most director's books- but if any of the auditions before hers ran over, or if there were enough people in the waiting room, the timing could easily be ignored.

The inside of Sombra was considerably more impressive. Marble floors, expensive wood panelling, it was the epitome of California celebrity self-indulgence. Despite living in the bubble herself, Fareeha found herself taken, held by the presence of marquee lighting showing off cast lists, award nominations, and everything in between. Her mother's scoldings echoed in her head, and Fareeha snapped out of her trance and jogged down the hall. At the end of the hall was a square room, painted a deep, rich purple. There was a door on each wall, all of them golden. Opening one door could lead her directly into somebody else's audition, and effectively ruin her own, or even get it cancelled.

"Oh great..." Fareeha muttered, putting her hand to her head. Her mother was outside smoking, but she probably wouldn't know where to go anyways.

"Lost, love?"

Fareeha turned to find the source of the voice she'd just heard, but instead was faced with a ghost.

Lena Oxton looked almost the same as when  _Captain Morrison's Treehouse_ had been cancelled. She was still gangly and thin, though Fareeha could admit she'd grown more into her frame since the last time they'd seen each other. Still wearing her old crocs and skin-tight bright leggings, Lena Oxton was the same. Though she had gone through considerable changes since  _Treehouse._ The first change was realizing she had two years to sort out her shit or become a washed up child actor. So, she signed a number of deals that ran her career into the ground and left her with the reputation of a difficult to work with child actor. Her second change came on her twenty-first birthday, after getting drunk for the first time all by herself in a hotel lobby.

She started a rap career under the pseudonym Tracer. It was worse than her acting, and she was ridiculed for months, but eventually, after enough hiding in a Peruvian spirit clinic for lonely white actors, Lena came back to Hollywood. However, by that point, she'd faded into obscurity, and when she called her former mentor/best friend, Fareeha Amari, she received a cold response. 

_"Who the fuck is this and how the shit did you get my number? I don't have any goddamn time for fans who want to ride my ass to the next celebrity mansion on their stalker tour. Got that? I'm fucking sick of this goddamn shitshow that people want to call Hollywood. You know who really appreciates me? Nobody! Nobody does! Art is fucking dead and fame is a goddamn social construct. Call me back when I'm sober, asshole."_

And so she did. Or, Lena thought she did. After waiting a solid twelve hours for Fareeha's sobriety to come back, she called again, faced with another drunken answer.

 _"I don't know who you are, so stop fucking calling me! You're a piece of shit compared to who I am- I'm Fareeha fuckin' Amari, do you even_ know _? Oh my God, she doesn't fucking know! Doesn't fucking know! I don't know who you are, because you're irrelevant! Get off my fucking phone or I'm calling the cyberpolice and they're going to come and arrest your ass- holy shit, you should be in jail now! You stalker! Stalker! You're a goddamn stalker! Wait, just wait until my tech guys get on your EP address and fucking destroy you! Jesse, don't you fucking think this person is a stalker? Don't walk away from me when I'm fucking talking to you! You don't mean shit to me! You're some bullshit assistant and I'm Fareeha goddamn Amari! Oh, screw this! Screw all of it! I hate technology, I hate people! I hope this house burns to the ground while I'm passed out in my own boozy vomit, I hate myself that fucking much. Call me back never, asshole."_

The next month, when she read a magazine interview describing Fareeha's struggle with sobriety- an interview she completed entirely drunk- Lena understood both calls, and deleted the number from her contacts. For a while afterwards, Lena had expected a heartwarming phone call from a rehab center, but instead, she was greeted with years of silence from Fareeha. 

"Holy fuck, Lena!" Fareeha exclaimed, grabbing her in a tight hug. "Oh God, I thought I would never see you again! The tabloids said you were dead!"

Squirming under Fareeha's rib-crusher, Lena giggled. "Of course I'm not dead! Just headed off to a spirit clinic in Peru for a bit, been layin' low the past few months- years. You know, the usual."

"How come you never called me?"

"Because you told me not to. And you had enough complicated nonsense in your life anyways. Didn't need to be bothered with anythin' about me."

Fareeha stared at Lena, confused. "I-I don't think I ever told you not to call me? Lena, I was going through a rough patch after  _Treehouse_. Whatever I said to you, I didn't mean it, I'm sure. That's a pretty general statement, but with the shit I was saying back then... I think it's fair to say."

"You don't remember those two phone calls. I know you don't. It was right after I got back from Peru, I called you up to ask you for advice on how to get back to good roles. Tracer was killing me, no director wanted me. You were the grown up one on  _Treehouse_ , Fareeha, I needed your wisdom and advice. But, when I called you up, you were totally smashed. You swore at me, threatened to have me arrested for stalking, and forgot who I was. I don't blame you, at all. I wish things had gone better, yeah, but I know it's unrealistic." Lena admitted, shrugging. After standing still for a few moments, staring Fareeha down, she laughed, throwing her hands up.

"That was sappy bullshit! Come on, I'm guessing your here for the big audition- lucky you, Sombra's late as hell, so we ain't even started yet. Let's go, let's go." Lena hustled Fareeha into one of the golden doors, ignoring her friend's obvious discomfort.

Though less luxurious than the rest of Sombra Studios, the waiting room was still nice. The floors were granite, the walls painted with a high-class mural of skulls, piled up, with a film reel sitting a the bottom. A method to the madness lay somewhere in the owner's mind, but it was not clear to anybody who hadn't been drinking for several hours. Lena took a seat on a bench, patting the empty spot beside her. Fareeha sat, avoiding eye contact.

In her effort, Fareeha glanced around the room, noting the variety of people gathered. She recognized some, but didn't want to greet them, especially after her meeting with Lena. Most of the people she knew, she hadn't talked to in a while, and when she did talk to them last, she was definitely not sober. From across the room, she spotted Aleksandra Zaryanova. They were friends back when Aleksandra had joined _Treehouse_ in it's sixth season, but after calling Aleksandra a "hussie ass bitch" in a drug-induced rage at twenty-three, they were now classified as rivals on every gossip blog in West Hollywood. Next to her was Amélie Lacroix, a powerful star who'd risen to fame only months before Fareeha had publicly called her out in a club, drunk off six vodka shots and a martini. 

Beside Amélie was Angela. Angela, with her hair in a perfectly centered high ponytail, wearing one of the most professional, yet casual outfits Fareeha had ever seen. Suddenly, she felt insignificant in her tank top, jeans, and sneakers, no matter the fact each piece had cost well over $400. Designer didn't mean anything when Angela was dressed better than she was in clothing picked off the clearance rack at Target.

Turning her head, Angela noticed Fareeha almost immediately. She waved casually, with a small smile. Dumbstruck, Fareeha wove slightly, ignoring the entrance of Sombra entirely.


	2. Dinner or Drinks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After being greeted with even more ghosts as she auditions for Overwatch, Fareeha decides to invite Angela over for dinner and drinks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- I LEARNED HOW TO DO FUNKY JUNK WITH THIS!!!! WE'RE GONNA BE USING THIS FORMATTING FROM NOW ON BECAUSE I L O V E IT!!!!!! -
> 
> decided to add warnings: graphic depictions of death, ment of vomit, ment of drug use, ment of alcohol <3 stay safe folks
> 
> also please beta for me, i can pay u in art. i have 0 moneys but art is my money
> 
> (im taking ap composition this year so if my writing goes drastically up in quality over the year u now know why)
> 
> i DO NOT condone the declawing of cats!! it is proven to hurt them and make them feel sad faces : ( do not condone : (

Never before had Fareeha been nervous for an interview. Maybe, it was Sombra, in all her masked glory. Sombra might have been the only director in Hollywood to deny the world her identity, hiding behind a mask and a pseudonym. Even the most advanced digging would only leave a dedicated fan with the same information everybody else has- the name Sombra, age unknown, permanent location unknown. Or maybe, Fareeha thought, it could've been the fact that she had wronged just about everyone in the room.

Amélie had noticed her, and looked incredibly upset by Fareeha's presence. Lena hadn't seemed to be too bothered by the fact that Fareeha's sat beside her, despite years of negligence and two phone calls rampant with drunken disrespect, but Fareeha felt wrong. Perhaps the only person she hadn't horribly offended yet was Angela, sitting in all her angelic beauty, watching Sombra with wide, blue eyes. Fareeha hadn't been paying attention to Sombra, examining them all, she'd been too focused on Angela, staring. Maybe, Fareeha was nervous that she would bomb the audition and be denied a year-long subscription to Angela's presence.

For a second, Fareeha thought she might be nervous that Angela would bomb it.

"You."

Fareeha barely heard Sombra speaking. When she looked up at her, Sombra was focusing on her. The mask showed no emotion, just a skull trained on her. Despite the lack of facial expressions, Fareeha still felt as though she's done something wrong.

"Yes, ma'am?" Fareeha spoke, though she was quieter than usual. The presence of a legend tended to do that.

"I want you. Come in, let's see you." Sombra was firm, no question in her voice.

When Sombra began to walk, so did Fareeha. She followed her into a small room, the walls painted a similar rich violet to the hallway. Sombra took her seat behind a black table, where there's a pile of resumes. In two of the four chairs sat two people that Fareeha had deeply wronged.

Jesse McCree was Fareeha's assistant for a year. As an assistant, he was perfect- never once delayed bringing Fareeha her coffee or dry cleaning, always remembered Fareeha's favorite brands, could keep paparazzi at bay long enough for her to climb into a car. But he'd been fired, on the anniversary of Fareeha's father's death, while she was drunk off whiskey, answering the last of Lena's phone calls.

The second person was Jack Morrison, Fareeha's former father figure, and the main character on her first venture into show business. Fareeha could almost remember the day they announced the show was ending, and she sat in her trailer and sobbed. Jack had held her, when her mother went off for a smoke break. He assured her there would be better jobs out there, and promised her there would be more opportunities for her. When Fareeha's luck had run out, and she was a C-list actress drinking and smoking her way through Hollywood, Jack had taken to social media to denounce her as an actress. That night Fareeha decided she would go out, and never come back home, though she just woke up in a hospital.

Maybe Jack never knew how much his words had stung her, how much they had inspired her to go out with her clique-for-hire and take shots like she was being paid. Still, Fareeha knew what it had meant to her, and walking into the room, she felt exactly like she did when she was chugging rum and cokes like her life depended on it. 

"Hello. Thank you for the opportunity." Fareeha said, shaking hands with each and every one of them, including the unknown woman sitting at the end of the table. 

She seemed unimpressed, almost disgusted with Fareeha's handshake. When Fareeha retracted her hand, she took a pump from the hand sanitizer dispenser on the table, rubbing her hands together while making hard eye contact.

"Thank you for coming in. Long time no see, Fareeha. Glad you're going out for bigger and better stuff." Jack said, giving her a nod and a small smile. For a moment, Fareeha felt as though she'd impressed him, but when she caught the hidden meaning in his words, it made her want to find the nearest bottle of tequila and empty it.

In the corner, a woman was standing with a camera slung around her neck, a video camera held tightly in her hands. She offered Fareeha a small smile, before gesturing her over. "Mei-Ling Zhou, I'm the head cinematographer- do you mind if I just get a few headshots?"

Fareeha nodded, and went to stand against one of the walls. Mei-Ling held the camera up to her eye, focusing as Fareeha tilted her head slightly, grinning widely. Headshots were one of her many specialities, as her mother said, she had a photogenic face and a love affair with the camera.

After getting the pictures she wanted, Mei-Ling waved her back over to where the table was set up. Fareeha stood directly in front of them as Mei-Ling poised herself behind Sombra, adjusting the video camera to just the right angle. Once Mei-Ling gave Sombra the thumbs up of approval, the director nodded.

"Let's see you on film."

 

* * *

 

Auditions for Sombra were known to be odd. Fareeha stood on the 'x' taped to the floor, and repeated a series of lines as Sombra wanted her to. Once she'd finished what was asked of her, Sombra asked Fareeha for her martial arts background.

"I did karate when I was, like, six... Other than that, nothing. I box, though! On the weekends, with my personal trainer."

"You've got a trainer?" Sombra asked, pencil poised over a sheet of paper.

"Best in the business." Fareeha confirmed.

"Mm. How well can you kick?"

"I'm not too bad."

"Kick for me."

"Kick?"

"Are your ears filled with wax- I said kick, so you kick now!"

Taken slightly aback, Fareeha shrugged, positioning herself properly. She kicked as well as she could, hoping it satisfied Sombra. Without any confirmation, she watched the four at the table angrily scratch down notes, Jesse the first to raise his head. He raised an eyebrow at her, and Fareeha met it with a small smirk, which was not returned.

Mei-Ling frowned, speaking up lightly, "Can you do that again? Just a little bit?"

"What?"

"Your smirk. I want to see it on camera, please, sorry."

Asking for an on camera smirk was hardly the weirdest thing she'd been asked to do, so she just looked at Jesse, and smirked again. Sombra nodded in approval, looking over to Jack. "She has a good face. A good bone structure."

Jack nodded, but said nothing to Fareeha or anybody else in the room. He scribbled down a note on his yellow Steno pad, observing Fareeha again. She stood firmly in place, hoping he would open up a nice, warm banter between them, just to diffuse the tension. Instead, Jack continued to write, occasionally grimacing or shaking his head.

Sombra sat back in her chair, examining her nails. "I would like you to answer some questions for me, Ms. Amari. First, let's talk morality. Do you drink?"

"Yes."

"Do you smoke?"

"Sometimes."

"Do you do drugs?"

Fareeha hesitated, before nodding with clear reluctance. "Sometimes. Only if it's at a club. And only if it's weed. My mother doesn't let me do anything heavier."

"Your mother?"

"Yes. She's my mother and my manager."

"And how do you feel about her?"

"W-Well, I love my mother. She's a wonderful person, really...."

"You hesitate. Tell me what you truly feel."

There was more hesitation. Opening up to Sombra wouldn't have real consequences- her mother would most likely never hear of the conversation, but it still felt wrong to so openly trash talk her mother. Ana had spent years training Fareeha to become an acting machine, a perfect line reciter, the height of modern Hollywood. The training, and the realization that she was nothing more than a tool to her mother compelled Fareeha to speak openly.

"Well," she began, "my mother is overbearing. I think it's because my father died when I was so young, after being  _so_ negligent... But, she never stops. Ever since I was a child, I've always had rules, rules, rules. When I was a teenager, I couldn't eat cupcakes after four in the afternoon, and if I did, I was only allowed to wear khakis for a week after. I hated khakis. And now that I'm older, the rules are harder for her to follow because she wants me to make her money. God, I'm an alcoholic, but she won't send me to any treatment because if I'm out, I do movies, and shows, and I make money. That was one of our rules- if I get drunk again, I go to rehab. But she's never followed through, I'm just like an ATM for her!"

Her tirade slowly wound down as she realized she'd overstepped. Confessing to be an alcoholic in front of a room full of people who could easily give her the axe probably wasn't Fareeha's best idea, but it was therapeutic. Still, Fareeha knew she had overstepped, and simply whispered, "I'm sorry. That was weird."

"It was honest." Sombra conceded, voice not betraying any of her inner thoughts. "No siblings? Father is deceased?"

"No siblings, no father."

"Hmm... Do you wish you had a father?"

"Not really. From what I hear from my mother, he was a huge ass. Never considered her feelings, couldn't pay attention to me for hardly a second. I don't know, I think I've done fine without him. You might've known him? He went by Justice Rainn back in the 70s and 80s- his real name was Laurence MacArthur. I took my mom's last name, she didn't like my father."

"Ah, yes. Laurence, my big soundtrack man gone tragically spiraling. Do you ever think about him? What it would be like to have a father again?"

"I used to sort of have one." Fareeha's eyes flickered in Jack's direction, but she continued on with her gaze set on Sombra, "But he doesn't return my calls anymore, I don't think he likes me. We had a falling out? After that, I really got thinking that maybe I'm just not destined to have a father. Maybe it's just how the universe planned it out for me?"

"Are you religious?"

"I was born muslim, but I'm atheist now."

"Why? Too strong of a belief in science?"

"Too little of a belief in myself."

Sombra slowly went quiet, mask hiding any element of emotion. Jack looked to the side, covering his mouth and sighing deeply. The woman beside him glared hard, but went and made a mark on her own notepad. Jesse hadn't made any movement, staring down at the table with intent.

"One last question." Fareeha looked up at the sound of Sombra's voice. "Do you want to protect the people you love?"

"Yes."

"From what?"

"Myself."

 

* * *

 

Closing the door gently behind her, Fareeha walked back out to the waiting room. Every head turned to look at her, Angela's eyes trained on her with almost worry. Fareeha shrugged as the next Pharah audition walked in. Before joining her mother at the edge of the room, she paused in front of Angela.

"How did it go?" Angela asked, leaning on the edge of her seat. "Did Sombra like you? Is she a good director? Who else is there with her?"

"A cinematographer, my old assistant, and Jack Morrison. Oh, and I think a writer? I'm not sure. Just shake everybody's hands and you'll be okay. She makes you talk a lot about your past, which I thought was weird, but, method to the madness. Hey, listen, on another topic," Fareeha began, shoving her hands in her pockets, "how about you and I have some dinner and drinks tonight? Totally cool if you're not interested, just-" 

"I'm interested. What kind of dinner?" She asked, smiling widely.

"I was thinking takeout- Thai food? Or I can burn some spaghetti for you."

"I like Thai. What kind of drinks?"

"Grocery store vodka sodas?"

"Excellent. I can let you know when my audition's done?"

"Perfect. Here, let me give you my number."

Angela passed her phone over, and Fareeha made quick work of creating a contact for herself. She handed the phone back, waved politely, and made her way to her mother. Ana gave Fareeha the once over, dragging her back over to the car.

"How did it go?"

"I guess it was alright. Sombra's a confusing director, so I'm not sure if I did well or not... I think it was fine." Fareeha shrugged, opening her door and sliding in. "She had me say some lines, kick, talk about myself. It was weird, but I was honest, I kicked nicely, said the lines with power and intensity. Just like you taught me."

Frowning, Ana got into the driver's seat, putting the keys in the ignition. "Okay. Did she say anything afterwards?"

"Said if she wanted me, I'd know by tonight. Speaking of tonight, I invited over Angela. She's auditioning too, for the Mercy role? We're going to order in, watch TV."

"You did an audition and got a date!? My goodness, who's sitting next to me? Certainly not my daughter!" Ana teased, pinching Fareeha's cheek. 

When Ana wasn't bullying her daughter into auditions or harassing her for being a deadbeat, she was a good mother. She had watched every single Harry Potter movie with her as a teenager, spent hours at night braiding her hair so it would come out twice as curly in the morning, washed her up when she came home drunk and covered in substances unknown- Ana wore her title as mother as a badge of honor, and though she sometimes was embarrassed by her daughter's behavior, she never once rejected her role. Sometimes, the badge was hidden after a fit, or kept secret for a while when Fareeha had too much scotch, and was on a drunk tirade in public.

Fareeha smiled at her mother, her mind wistfully going in a million directions at once. At that moment, she figured she might not be Ana's old daughter, she might be a new one. Like a phoenix, maybe Fareeha had been reborn. She decided then to turn over a new leaf- to slowly ween herself off alcohol, become a kinder person, and reinvent her celebrity persona. Real Fareeha was the same as Celebrity Fareeha- crass, rude, disrespectful, alcoholic. Celebrity Fareeha would now be ten times better than Real Fareeha, who would also attempt to better herself.

The first step to bettering herself was going through and deleting all her nasty or pointless tweets, the side effect of losing her publicist. The next was to announce her change to the world:

 

fareeha amari @farmi

back on twitter for right now! just had a #great audition with @SombraStudios  

* * *

   
It was around four when Angela texted Fareeha. At first, the out of California area code had shocked her, and briefly, she wondered which deranged fan got their hands on her number. Then, she went right back to her brief conversation in the waiting room, and it all made sense.

 

_[Angela Ziegler | 4:12pm] Just finished my audition. Can that be called an audition? LOL, anyways... I'm about to head back to my apartment to make myself a little prettier. What time do you want me over?_

 

_[Fareeha Amari | 4:16pm] How does 5:30 sound? My house is clean (thanks to the maids) and I can order whenever, so drop by when you feel like it. Are you super hungry?_

 

_[Angela Ziegler | 4:18pm] Auditions take a lot out of a girl, so I guess I am._

 

_[Fareeha Amari | 4:21pm] Let's make it 4:45 then?_

 

_[Angela Ziegler | 4:22pm] Deal._

 

 

An impromptu dinner date with some random woman who's couch she'd woken up on that morning was no fairytale, but it was Fareeha's first date in a year. The whole ritual of dating and romance had become entirely foreign to her, ever since she broke up with some groupie who'd latched onto her at a meet and greet. Her mother was no help, she hadn't dated since Fareeha's father, and her techniques were rather outdated, coming fresh from the eighties.

Realizing what her best hope was, Fareeha exited her messages, and opened up Twitter.

 

fareeha amari @farmi

hey twitter!! just curious- what do u like 2 do b4 a date??

 

The replies were almost instant, flooding in from old and new fans alike.

 

#1 hana song stan @sweetbabyhotpocket

@farmi 1) shower 2) pick a niiiiice outfit 3) #pineapple

wreck me aleksandra @ilovebuffgirls69

@farmi gotta brush ya teeth n shit

 

Mentally, Fareeha composed a list of necessary components to perfect date prep, entirely ruling out the nonsensical submissions: Shower, brush teeth, brush hair, dress nicely, unleash her cats for a conversation piece. It seemed simple enough, and she went over it several times as she let her curls loose, adjusted her color, and set her four cats- Caesar, Tiberius, Nero, and Augustus- free into the living room. The four were usually confined exclusively to Fareeha's floor of the house, since Ana hated the sight of all the hairless kittens. When they were permitted to wander, it was with baby gates at every exit, though they could easily crawl through them, none of them were intelligent enough to figure it out yet.

She lay on her stomach, tickling under the kittens' chins, until a knock at the door gave her the cue. "Coming!" Fareeha called out, scooping Nero up and heading over.

Opening the door, Fareeha put on her best smile, cradling the sphynx kitten close to her chest, attempting to exude a warm atmosphere. Angela smiled at her, about to say something before noticing Nero.

"Oh my gosh! You have a kitten?" She squealed, hand hovering above his head.

"Four. You can hold him if you want, this is Nero." Fareeha explained, carefully passing him over to an eager Angela. "The others are Caesar, Augustus, and Tiberius- Caesar's the only girl, though."

"Roman politicians- good taste." Angela teased, laying Nero down on her chest. Fareeha smiled, rubbing Nero's ears, listening to the kitten purr at Angela. 

Fareeha led Angela into the living room, where Caesar was revving up to leap from the couch onto a napping Tiberius. Sprinting to the rescue, Fareeha caught Caesar just as she wound up for her jump, cradling the irritable kitten in the crook of her arms. Angela smiled, settling herself on the couch, letting Nero climb up onto her shoulder and snack on her hair. "They're cute. You like cats?"

"A lot." Fareeha said, kissing Caesar's nose as she was met with furious mewls. "My mom  _hates_ them. She thinks they shed and scratch, so we got hairless and declawed cats. I feel sorry for them, but they're the best cats anyone could ask for. Didn't see any pets at your place."

Angela sighed, holding Nero up to her cheek. She shook her head, responding, "No. I can't afford them... At home- in Des Moines- we had a dog. A St. Bernard named Valkyrie. My dad keeps her around for his seizures. She's a service dog.

Smiling softly, Fareeha looked up to Angela. "It's good he's got somebody around for him."

"Where does your dad live?"

"He passed a while ago, when I was little."

"I-I'm so sorry... Was he sick...? I'm sorry, I don't mean to pry."

"Drugs. He was halfway famous, like me. I was supposed to go to his house, per my mom's custody agreement with him after they separated. When I was almost to his door, I thought the building just smelled rotten. Opened up his door, walked in, and he was dead in the bathroom. He'd been there for days apparently. A lot of psychologists say you don't remember anything until you're seven, but I don't think that's something I can forget." Fareeha admitted, staring at Caesar. "It's not like I remember every detail. But I remember how bad it smelled- I thought his new girlfriend had left the milk out. And his body, he was lying in alcohol and vomit. He was wearing the tie I got him for Father's Day, and he was trying to put on cologne when he died apparently- since his bottle was knocked over."

A hand to her heart, Angela reached over, shaking her head. "Oh God, Fareeha. I'm so sorry. That's terrible, that's absolutely awful."

Fareeha shook her head. "It's not. I don't understand why, but I don't think it's awful. Maybe it's closure? I like thinking about it- even though it sounds morbid. Just... It makes him more human to me? I can't remember anything else about him, except for him being dead. Even in the old music videos my mom shows me, I don't feel connected to him. That's not my father, that's some rockstar trying to put on a performance. His corpse is the best memory I've ever had of him. I can remember every single detail- black and white shower curtain, we picked it out together on his weekend with me. Mint toothpaste, the brown shoes my mother hated him in, the brown slacks he wore for meetings, he had his sister's ring on. She died when I was one and a half, and he took a ring from her, to remember her by. When he held my hand in public for paparazzi pictures, it always left marks on my hand."

It was silent for a few moments. Angela had no response, Fareeha had no continuation. The kittens interrupted their moment, Tiberius nipping at Fareeha's ankle, yowling for attention. She scooped him up as well, turning to Angela with deep concentration, "Want to get drunk?" 


	3. Visits but Without a Host

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fareeha thinks about her father.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warning: this chapter is a bit graphic in its depiction of fareeha's father's death. there's lots of mentions of drugs and alcohol, as well as discussion of overdose and conversations about mortality, and SUPER vague implications of suicide. lots of lying, manipulation, and some slight gaslighting.
> 
> i wasnt born in the 80s, i didnt ""experience"" the 80s, so if anything is ""historically inaccurate"" u kno why. i googled everything, fact checked my stuff, but if its inaccurate lmk
> 
> this is like less focused on the acting part but its a big part of fareeha's character. + i wanted to explore ana's relationship w fareeha and her relationship w her father : /
> 
> srry if it seems poorly written im actually a yorkie with a semi-opposable thumb smacking at the keyboard

It was Friday, March 17th, 1989.

Fareeha had her hair in a scrunchy, wearing the bright orange windbreaker her mother had gotten her for Christmas. She'd accused it several times of being gaudy, but Fareeha's favorite color was orange, and she couldn't deny her daughter a chance to be dressed warmly in her favorite color. 

The driver her father had bought her for her third birthday was by her side, holding her hand and listening to her tell him all about how she'd fallen over during building time in Kindergarten. He swung her as they walked up the concrete path to Fareeha's father's Hollywood mansion. She was ignorant to the fact he was keeping her moving to keep the paparazzi hungrily waiting outside from getting any good pictures. 

When they reached the door, he rang the doorbell for her, since she couldn't reach, waved goodbye, and headed back to the car. Fareeha waved back, standing on her tip-toes so he could see her better. She pulled her key from her pocket- the doorbell was just to let her father know she was coming- and stuck it in the lock, opening the door and going inside, anticipating her father's big welcome hug and kiss.

Her father had turned on all the lights, for once. The TV was on, playing nothing but static. She went over and turned the set off- the sound made her upset. And then, it was silent, and Fareeha went around adventuring for her father.

"Daddy?" She called out, sticking her head into the kitchen. 

The whole house smelled absolutely rotten, and she figured it was the work of his new girlfriend. Lucy could barely cook, but whenever she made a mistake, she served it anyways. Ultimately, her father would pretend to eat it, and instead feed it to their dog, before ordering Fareeha's favorite pizza when Lucy went back to her apartment in Los Angeles.

Lucy was a model. She was pretty, and very smart, but she hated Fareeha. Every time she was forced to help Fareeha with her advanced work, she would groan the entire time about how bratty Fareeha was, how much she hated children. There were one or two times where Fareeha stole her clothes while she showered, and hid them under the couch. If Lucy wanted to hate children, she would give her a reason. Once or twice, her father had caught her, but he just smiled and turned his head the other way.

But Lucy wasn't home. If she was, she would've been already shouting at Fareeha to get out of the kitchen and do something useful. The house was silent, until their dog began to howl, running down the stairs and joining Fareeha in the kitchen. They'd owned Joan since Fareeha was a baby. Named for Joan Crawford, the collie had been Fareeha's loyal companion since she could first remember, and would even try to play soccer with her in the backyard.

"Joan, where's Daddy?" Fareeha asked, petting her gently, like her father had told her to.

Joan couldn't respond, only bark at her. Fareeha rolled her eyes and pulled the bag of treats from the drawer all of Joan's things were kept in. She tossed her four, and Joan ate them all desperately. When she looked to Fareeha hungrily, she gave her four more, heading up the stairs with the treats still in hand.

Ducking her head around the corner, Fareeha was met with the worst smell she'd ever had the displeasure of inviting into her senses. Still, she was working off a cold, and it was toned down slightly, so she pressed on, pinching her nose. "Daddy! Didn't Renee come!?"

Renee, their maid, came on Tuesdays and Saturdays. Fareeha loved Renee, she always brought shortcake cookies for her, and when her father was busy, she would read her the bedtime story she desperately wanted to hear.

Her father's bedroom door was open. Fareeha kicked it in, since her father always thought it was hilarious when she played SWAT team with him. But he didn't laugh from his desk and scoop her into a big hug. He wasn't even in the room. But the smell was worse here. It smelled like Lucy's cooking and her dad's dirty socks, plus Joan after running around in the woods for hours. She couldn't help it when she gagged- it smelled worse than anything before. It was terrible, there was no denying it. Now, Fareeha was curious, and she went inside, her shirt over her nose, trying to find the smell.

Inside the bathroom, he was lying on the floor, face down. Fareeha kicked him hard in the side with her Reeboks. The sound he made was awful, but Fareeha wanted to go play soccer. So, she kicked again. This sound was even worse, and she went running, crying down the stairs. Joan licked her face, trying to get the tears off and comfort her.

Fareeha stayed downstairs until four. She was hungry, and when her stomach growled, she knew something was wrong. Her father always fed her when she needed to be fed- he had a sixth sense. Picking the receiver up, she dialed the number her mother had taught her for emergencies.

After waiting for several moments, Fareeha spoke loudly and confidently- just what her father had told her: "Hi, I'd like to order a medium-size cheese pizza. Only cheese and tomato sauce. Thanks. I'll pay in cash. Thanks. Bye."

The delivery man asked where her father was. She told him he was napping in the bathroom, and when he asked, "Like Elvis Presley?" Fareeha shook her head, took the pizza, and handed him a twenty she'd dug out of her father's wallet, sitting on the dresser, cards spilling out everywhere. He always let her borrow his money, so long as she promised to pay him back by putting him in a good nursing home when he was old.

When it got dark outside, there was nobody to help her into her pajamas, and nobody to tuck her into bed and kiss her forehead and read her the  _Berenstain Bears._ Fareeha got nervous, and after letting Joan finish off the pizza, went back to the phone, dialing the number her mother had given her for panic situations.

"Hello? I'm Fareeha Amari, I'm five years old, and I'm in Hollywood. My daddy's been napping all afternoon and he won't wake up, and when I kick him he makes this real gross sound and he hasn't showered in a while because he smells like Lucy's cooking. Lucy is his girlfriend. I need someone to come and wake him up, because it's nine o'clock and I have to go to sleep at nine thirty, and he has to give me a kiss goodnight and check my closet, otherwise the gremlins are going to come and get me... My address? Okay, let me check outside."

At nine fifteen, a police officer scooped Fareeha up into her arms, and carried her back down the walkway, holding her head tight to her shoulder while two doctors ran up to the house. She wanted to ask why they were there, they hadn't been invited in. The police officer held onto her until she fell asleep, and only woke her up once, when her mother came with Joan on a leash.

Fareeha woke up the next morning in her mother's bed, Joan between their legs, Ana's arms wrapped around her daughter so tightly she almost felt like she couldn't breathe. After briefly fussing, she fell back asleep, letting her mom kiss the back of her head, and hum softly to her.

More police offers wanted to talk to her. The nice police officer from the night before wasn't there, only a mean, ugly man with a mustache. Fareeha made faces at him. He didn't appreciate it. All of his questions were about her father. Did he drink anything? Did he eat anything? Did he make any sounds?

She told him to shut up, and asked if she could go back home. Another police officer came in, and asked her the same questions, and Fareeha gave him the same response. When the third police officer came in, Ana came with, and asked the questions instead. Fareeha started to cry, she didn't know what her father had been doing, she didn't know if Lucy was over, she didn't know why there were three bottles of scotch in the dining room, or why there were so many empty pill bottles it might as well have been a pharmacy. 

That night, Fareeha was allowed to pick dinner. She asked for a McDonald's cheeseburger, and curled up beside her mother while they watched  _The Goonies_ together. Ana kept kissing her daughter's temple, whispering to her that it was alright, that they would be okay. Even though Fareeha didn't quite understand what was wrong in the first place.

All of the next week, Fareeha was allowed to stay home from Kindergarten. On Monday, Ana took her to a fancy store downtown. She was put in a black dress that felt itchy and went down to her ankles, and she had to try on so many pairs of kitten heels that she had blisters just from putting them on and off.

On Wednesday, Ana put her in a car, in the black dress that felt itchy, and they drove downtown, where news cameras were set up near a funeral home. Ana held Fareeha on her hip while they waited with Lucy and Fareeha's grandmother, who was crying so hard her cakey makeup was running. Fareeha went into her grandmother's arms when she demanded that Ana pass her over, and was forced to hear her sob while she was held, being rocked and assured everything was alright.

Fareeha didn't understand what was wrong in the first place.

Several men came out of the funeral home, introduced themselves to them all. They passed Ana a plastic baggie with a piece of paper inside, and after analyzing the writing for a few moments, she nodded and tucked it in her purse. Ana led the way inside, and they gathered around a coffin. Taking her daughter back from her ex-mother-in-law, Ana asked if Fareeha wanted to see her father one last time. Fareeha nodded, and was warned he wouldn't look like her father anymore. She just wrapped her arms around Ana's neck tighter, and stuck her thumb in her mouth.

The funeral home had done an acceptable job in making him look like he was still alive. So convincing, that it made Fareeha reach out, only to be slapped away by Lucy. Ana hadn't gotten into any fight beside the coffin, she waited until the next day, when she yelled at the phone so hard that Fareeha was sure Lucy was feeling the very vibrations on the other side.

Ana let her walk down the street behind the coffin. There were lot's of news cameras, some of them getting just at the barricade, before being barked away by Ana. Fareeha hated the paparazzi, but they loved her. They took more pictures then than any other time in her life, not even when her parents carried her out of the hospital, covered by a newspaper. Her dress itched, and Fareeha wanted it to be off, but instead, she scratched idly at her thigh, ignoring the flash going off around her.

On Friday, Ana drove her to a psychologist's office. There were lot's of boardgames in bookshelves, posters of kittens hanging onto tree branches. Ana held her hand when they walked in, but let her go into the office on her own, no matter how much Fareeha protested. Dr. Adawe was beautiful, with hair that curled like Fareeha's. Aside from her beauty, Fareeha thought she was a royal pain.

Dr. Adawe liked to ask questions, especially about Fareeha's father. What their relationship was, who he liked to see, how did she feel about him being gone? Fareeha didn't know he was gone. That set Dr. Adawe back a bit. She went into her bookshelf and picked out a chess set. Once the pieces were set up properly, Dr. Adawe explained the rules, and let Fareeha take the first move. After playing for ten minutes with some guidance towards Fareeha- they reached a point in which Dr. Adawe took one of Fareeha's pieces. Eventually, all of Fareeha's pieces were gone.

"Can I have them back?" Fareeha asked, making grabby hands.

"No. They're dead. They don't come back." Dr. Adawe stated, very matter-of-fact, "They're like your father."

The metaphor was imperfectly crafted, and it went directly over Fareeha's head, resulting in tears over the fact she was denied her precious pieces. Ana took her home and treated her to mint chocolate chip ice cream and chicken nuggets. On Sunday, Ana took her to an old friend's office, Dr. Wilhelm. Apparently, they'd known each other in high school, but Dr. Wilhelm had expanded his career to become one of the best celebrity psychologists in the business, providing therapy to those of all ages.

His metaphors fell similarly, and Fareeha was unbreakable. Every Friday, she would wait on her front step for her driver to take her to her father's house, until Ana took her to Dr. Wilhelm's to try and drive the message home one last time. When he failed at using a hunting metaphor to convince her that her father was really gone, Ana sat her down at the kitchen table.

Eyes narrowed, Ana grabbed Fareeha's hand. "Your father doesn't want you back anymore, Fareeha."

"What?"

"He doesn't want you to come to his house anymore. And he never wanted you there. Every time you were there, he was busy with Lucy, he didn't want you to be there."

Fareeha stuck her thumb in her mouth and started to cry, but Ana pressed on, "Your daddy doesn't like you. He wishes you were never around, and he thinks you're a huge baby."

When Fareeha climbed into Ana's lap, begging to never go back to her father, Ana knew she'd done her job, and she'd done it the best she could. If she couldn't convince Fareeha her father was gone, then she would make sure to convince her that her father wanted her gone. As long as it kept her from sulking on the front step every Friday afterschool, Ana was pleased with it.

She first realized her father was dead in sixth grade. The teacher was going on about a poem that featured death very heavily. Fareeha had just started rehearsals for  _Treehouse_ , and she was instructed to keep her role under wraps. So, she stayed in public school.

Parading around the room, waving the poem about, her teacher asked if anyone knew a person who had died. Half the class raised their hands. Some lost grandparents, one girl lost her cousin, another's aunt had passed away in a train crash- it was all very tragic. And suddenly, as they reached the end of the group, Fareeha's hand shot up.

"Fareeha, yes. Who did you lose?"

"My father."

"How?"

"I don't know."

After a phone call from a very concerned principal, Ana sat Fareeha down on the couch and explained her version of her father.

"He was horrible to you. Used to ignore you for hours and hours on end, and I'd pick you up screaming and crying, hungry with a dirty diaper. It was awful, Fareeha. He overdosed without any consideration for you, your future, your feelings." Ana whispered, pressing a small kiss to her daughter's cheek. "What he did was horrible, but what he did to you before was unacceptable."

The next day at rehearsal, Fareeha hid in her trailer and cried, until the producer yelled at her to either come on set or leave the show. She cried harder, and demanded to leave. Ana was sent in to do damage control, but Fareeha barricaded her door, and each cast member made their case to her. Nobody could appeal to her, until Jack Morrison stood at the steps and asked to come in. He sat beside her on the couch in her trailer, once Fareeha moved her little coffee table and comfortable chairs away from the door.

"Everyone wants to see you back at rehearsal."

"I don't want to go."

Jack raised an eyebrow, and Fareeha started crying again. She felt betrayed by her father, she felt offended that she'd spent her whole life believing he was a saint, that he'd died a valiant death. All of the night before, she'd been crying, hardly sleeping, her dreams plagued by images of her villainous father. 

"I really don't." Fareeha whispered, drawing her knees up and pressing her hands against her eyes.

Getting up from the couch, Jack patted the top of her head. While Fareeha physically recoiled, she appreciated the action, despite how it made her feel inside. 'It's the thought that counts.' She thought, curling up against the arm of the couch.

Rehearsal was cancelled, and Ana drove Fareeha home, staying surprisingly silent, despite the fact that her daughter had gotten their rehearsal cancelled and her paycheck delayed. Fareeha went straight to her room to work on homework and try to distract herself from the depression eating at her.

Ana and Fareeha sat through Princess Diana's funeral together, eating cereal as the news station replayed it from the 1am original broadcast. At thirteen, Fareeha had never fully understood her father's funeral. She'd seen videos of it played in tribute to him on his birthday, or on the anniversary of his death- but she never fully understood why anybody had the sense to film it, or why thousands of people her family didn't know were lined up at the barricades, sobbing as if he were their own father.

Silence lay over the room for minutes as the coffin travelled down the streets, mourners tossing flowers at it, while her children followed behind in the same manner that Fareeha had. Her hands were trembling, but she only stared at the TV with raving intensity. Memories were flooding over her in waves, like a hurricane beating against shutters. Hazy memories, but memories nonetheless.

"Fareeha?" Ana asked, reaching over.

Her cereal was on the floor, and the bowl was in pieces. But she couldn't stop shaking, even when Ana had her arms wrapped around her and was asking what was wrong. In her mother's arms, Fareeha started to cry, vaguely mumbling that the TV people didn't know Princess Diana, none of the spectators knew her.

"None of them  _care_! They just show up because she was important! Not because they cared about her!" Fareeha wailed, holding on tighter to her mother. "They didn't know her! They didn't know her!"

Moving Fareeha into her lap, Ana stroked her hair. She rocked her back and forth, like a baby. "She was important to them. Everybody has personal connections, my little Fareeha. Maybe she changed their lives in a dramatic way? Perhaps she inspired somebody to leave their own disappointing husband. People attended because they loved her, Fareeha."

"They didn't love her!" She screeched, shoving her mother away.

Ana grabbed Fareeha's wrist tightly, pulling her back, and holding her tight to her chest. "Do you love Princess Diana? Why are you so worked up?"

With no answer supplied, Ana sighed, cradling Fareeha as she reclined on the couch. She hummed gently while the funeral went on in the background, and Fareeha chewed at her thumbnail, crying the whole while. "You've always been so righteous. Always so concerned for the sakes of other people, haven't you been? Worried about the right and wrong in this world- rather than taking care of yourself."

Fareeha closed her eyes tight, gripping on to her mother's collar. "Th-They didn't know Daddy. They had no idea who he was... N-Nobody knew but me. And you. And Grandma."

"Oh,  _Fareeha_." Ana sighed, holding onto her even tighter. "They knew. I know they knew."

"Why did they put it on television? He didn't n-need to be broadcasted!"

"Because other people wanted to see, Fareeha. Your father wasn't a good man, but he changed people's lives- for better or for worse."

"They didn't  _know_."

Sighing heavily, Ana readjusted Fareeha, nestling her head in the crook of her neck and rubbing big circles on her back. Hiccuping, Fareeha leaned in, tears falling against Ana's well-defined collarbones. Ana placed a hand against her head, and pressed a kiss to her forehead.

"Nobody knew, Fareeha. Nobody knew."


End file.
